When the words took over...

For a while now, the brushes have sat still, the inks drying in their bottles, the canvases leaned quietly in the corner, waiting. Not abandoned—just... on pause. Something unexpected tugged at my creative sleeve and pulled me in a different direction: poetry.

It wasn’t planned. It crept in like a whisper and then flooded like a river. Short lines. Sudden rhythms. Images made of language rather than paint. I found myself chasing fragments of thought and emotion, not with charcoal or spray, but with keystrokes and stanza breaks.

What I discovered is that the creative energy is the same—it simply changed form. The same abstraction, the same curiosity, the same compulsion to reveal something hidden. But now it was shaped in syllables rather than silhouettes.

For those wondering where the new artwork is—know that it’s still brewing, just behind the poetry. The imagery is stacking up. I feel it gathering again. And when it returns to the studio, I suspect the work will be changed by these poems. Maybe looser. Maybe more inward. Maybe both. Sometimes, we follow the line wherever it leads, even when it pulls us off the canvas and into the page.

​Do you know what irritates a poet most of all? 

Is it when he receives some hurtful criticism

Is it when his book is rejected by the publishers?

No.. it's when he has written something in pencil late at night , and the next day he can't read his own handwriting! 

Maybe there'll be a second edition if I can ever work out those words !